What Happens in Vegas Stays With Your Lawyer
by murderofonerose
Summary: Actually, there are three things to do in Vegas: get drunk, gamble, and be married by Elvis. Contains slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** Slash. Skwisgaar/Charles.**  
Word Count:** 2716**  
Disclaimer: **I own nothing. **  
**

Pretend that two guys can get married in the state of Nevada, because I don't think they can. Can they? I don't think they can. I don't even know. I don't even know where this story came from, it just sort of started being written on a whim.

* * *

**What Happens in Vegas Stays With Your Lawyer**

* * *

They were in Las Vegas. And in Vegas, Charles had been informed, there were two things to do. Getting drunk was one of them. Beyond that… either Skwisgaar had trailed off or Charles had forgotten, which was a frequent side effect of letting the boys talk him into getting sloppy with them.

For example, he had very definitely forgotten exactly what was in the shot glass they were trying to get him to take now, so he was firmly refusing to do so.

"But you gots to drinks dis, butlers man," Skwisgaar insisted, slouching against Charles and holding the glass in front of his face. "Pickle ams poureds it eck-speckticallies for yous…"

"I don't think that would be a good idea." He may have been slurring a little, but Charles still had his common sense.

"Pffft…"

With surprising grace, Skwisgaar swung a long leg over and settled above Charles on the couch. He put his palm on top of the manager's head, working his fingers into short brown hair, and forced him to tilt his head back.

"You drinks dis nows," he commanded haughtily, pressed the shot glass to Charles' lips, and tipped it.

Charles could have pushed him off, but there was a table somewhere in that direction and he couldn't risk Skwisgaar cracking his head open in the middle of a tour.

The alcohol burned on the way down.

_

* * *

A series of memory fragments that Charles was going to have to piece together in the morning:_

* * *

Pickles poured another round and Skwisgaar stayed put, to make sure Charles drank his.

* * *

Toki said something about a lights show, so they all smoked… something, before going to see that. The air was so thick that the contact high and actually taking a hit were probably pretty much the same thing, Charles rationalized…

* * *

Watching the light show in seats build to recline. There were a lot of blues. And purples. Skwisgaar, sitting in the next seat over, had wandering hands.

* * *

Either Skwisgaar had rolled over into his seat, or pulled Charles over the padded armrest onto his. It was hard to tell, and Charles hadn't been given much say in the matter besides "oof."

* * *

After the light show, the others wanted to go find a bar.

The bathroom next to the theater was empty.

These, Charles decided, were the most beautiful knees he'd ever seen on a man.

* * *

There was a strange taste in his mouth. What had been _in_ those shots?

* * *

"Dere aaaaaaams… t'ing to does ins Vegas," Skwisgaar announced, punctuating the statement with a swig from a bottle of… something. "We does dat."

He put the bottle to Charles' mouth (ow) and tipped. More of the liquid went on his shirt and almost (but not quite) unknotted tie than down his throat.

"Dens maybe I does _dis_," Skwisgaar added with a slur and a leer, taking the bottle away and giving Charles's ass a smack.

* * *

"Wait," Charles mumbled. "Wait. Not yet. I was, I was raised with standers."

"Pffffft," against his skin.

* * *

"No, no, it's okay," Charles told the Elvis impersonator, "I'm his lawyer. I've got power of attorney." He waved vaguely at where Skwisgaar had passed out on the floor. "I can sign his stuff."

* * *

"Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey."

"Whaaaaaats?"

"I'm not going to wear this. I dun, dun, _don't_ think it goes with my tie."

"Ja okays, I wasn'ts goings to wear mines eider. Not very brutals."

"We could get… black ones? Pass the bottle again."

* * *

Stumbling back into the Dethbus. A gear stepped forward, silently offering to help the lead guitarist to his room, but Charles waved the hooded servant off; he could do this himself.

* * *

Trying to tug those tight pants down by the belt buckle.

* * *

It felt good. To feel someone stretched out against him, a warm anchor while the room – hell, considering who they were, the whole world – revolved around them.

He yawned, feeling free to drift off. It was all right. Felt good…


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning:** Slash. Skwisgaar/Charles.**  
Word Count:** 2055**  
Disclaimer: **I own nothing. **  
**

This still hasn't gotten to the good hard deep dickings part. I'm, uh, not very good at writing that kind of thing, so it will take a while.

* * *

Charles stared up at the ceiling, absolutely mortified.

He was also hung over, desperately needed to relieve himself, and, whenever he attempted to move, definitely feeling the effects of having been fucked. And from what he remembered of the sex, he couldn't quite tell himself honestly that it hadn't been worth it. At least there was that – but he wasn't sure if that made his current predicament better or worse.

Skwisgaar was passed out next to him and drooling on his shoulder, one hand curled between Charles' legs and practically cupping his balls. Left hand, as a matter of fact. Charles could tell without looking because he could feel metal against his skin.

He held his own left hand up above his face, staring at it.

The ring on his finger felt huge. It _was_ huge. At least it was a man's wedding band… He wouldn't have put it past Skwisgaar to buy him a woman's ring and laugh and call him a lady. Had that almost happened? Charles had the distinct impression that, in the end, he had picked this one out himself, polished monstrosity that it was.

He dropped his arm back down on the bed and turned his head to look at Skwisgaar.

Was it wrong to envy a sleeping man's ignorance?

With a sigh, Charles carefully removed a hand worth millions of dollars from between his legs. He lifted his own hand again and briefly compared; yes, the gold wedding bands definitely matched. How… unfortunate.

He had to get out of there. Immediately. Start thinking about damage control.

Very gently (for the sake of _everyone_ involved) he extricated himself from the bed, silently found his clothes, and made himself as decent as possible. Then, with one final, pensive look at the still unconscious Swede, he left.

* * *

A shower, change of clothes, several aspirin, and a pot of coffee later, Charles went through the pile of receipts he'd found in his pockets from the night before. The marriage certificate had already been smoothed out and tucked away in an unlabeled file folder and hidden in a drawer.

What he was really worried about now was the chance that they may have ordered wedding photos, which had the potential to be seen by any number of people while being developed. He didn't remember any being taken, but there was a lot about last night that he couldn't remember.

It… looked like they hadn't. Picking through the receipts had given him significantly more faith in his drunken ability to hold onto things, no matter how insignificant.

He held up a Starbucks receipt. This one he remembered… The employees there had insisted that the restroom was for paying customers only, so Charles had bought a bottled water. And then Skwisgaar, in his infinite drunken wisdom, had poured the water all over the floor and pissed in the bottle, right there. The look on the cashier's face had been priceless. Of course, _then_ someone had recognized Skwisgaar.

Charles caught himself grinning at the memory, and quickly stopped.

* * *

Several hours later, the door to his Dethbus office opened. Charles didn't look up, knowing that it wasn't an employee (the hoods knew to speak up quickly, for maximum efficiency) and wasn't Nathan (who he would have heard coming).

"Can I help you with something?" he asked blandly.

A pale, long-fingered hand slammed down in the middle of the newspapers and tabloids he was scouring.

Charles blinked at Skwisgaar's ring and looked up, thinking uncomfortably of the matching one in his pants pocket.

"Whats happen last nights?" Skwisgaar demanded.

"I…" Charles realized that Skwisgaar was eyeing his left hand suspiciously. _Looking for it_, he realized. So much for the hope of avoiding any sort of awkward discussion on the subject. "Drinking. Lots of drinking."

Being in the same room with this man, his _husband_, was… disconcerting. He'd been trying not to think about this on any kind of personal level all day.

"Skwisgaar," he said, "maybe you should practice for the performance tomorrow—"

"Whats. Happen."

Charles sighed. He was going to need more aspirin and coffee, at this rate. "The two of us were married in a twenty-four hour drive thru chapel by a man doing a bad impersonation of Elvis."

"Hmm." A delicate raising of one blonde eyebrow, but why… why didn't Skwisgaar look surprised? He'd asked, after all. And why was he slowly pushing the newspapers to one side of the desk? "Dats am right. And you's my lawyer whats supposked to keeps dats sorts of t'ing from happenings…"

If he kept pushing those papers – and Charles suspected he would – they were going to end up on the floor. "Yes, well," he began, distracted.

With a fluttering crash, the newspapers hit the floor.

The rest of what he'd been about to say (_that's what you get for spiking my coffee during a tour and then inviting me drinking_) died on his lips as Skwisgaar climbed onto the desk and sat, gray-clad legs spread, before him.

"If I has to be marrieds, den you does toos. Puts on you's ring ands lets haves de hungs-de-moons some mores."

Blinking rapidly, Charles took off his glasses and focused on cleaning them for a moment – as if that would help him to better hear things that _weren't_ completely inappropriate. "Let me, ah, see if I have this right. You want to…?"

Skwisgaar shrugged. "Untils I gets boreds, ja. Den I wants you to undoes dis. Marrieds ams for regulars jack-off dildoes and grandspas."

Charles stopped cleaning his glasses before he wore holes in the lenses, and put them back on. The idea of… He should not be this intrigued, but it was hard not to be when Skwisgaar Skwigelf, world's fastest guitarist, was sliding forward on his desk and depositing himself suggestively in his lap. The bulge in the front of Skwisgaar's jeans was already obvious… That, Charles realized, had been there since he'd entered the room and was probably a large contributing factor to why this was happening.

"I still have to make sure that no one knows about… this," he muttered distractedly.

"Does it later," Skwisgaar commanded, loosening Charles' tie and leaning forward. "You's in ans imps-portants meetings. Nows…" He ran both his hands up Charles' neck and into his hair, rubbing gently in all the right places until the CFO's eyes slid closed and head tilted back. "I blacksed out most of de sex from last nights, so you's will reminds me, ja?"

Charles opened his eyes a crack and raised an eyebrow. "Not very memorable, was I?"

"Eh, happens all de times." Skwisgaar shrugged and continued his massage. "You ams nots too hungs over froms all dat booze you's usuallies too borinkgs to drinks?"

"I am not a lightweight," Charles murmured vaguely. His eyes were closed again.

"Pfft, you ams. Don'ts worries, I gets you ready."

"This is not the time or place for this sort of thing," he protested, but far too weakly to convince even himself. He thought of the marriage certificate tucked away in his desk drawer. When Skwisgaar had passed out in the chapel, that had been his chance to back out and avoid all this. But he hadn't. He'd _signed for him_. Whatever stupid urge had prompted that was obviously at work again, because when Skwisgaar brushed their lips together his parted easily and he was actually disappointed when the Swede didn't kiss him.

"Where dids you puts it?" Skwisgaar asked.

"Put… What?"

The million-dollar fingers left his hair and trailed down his neck and chest, riffling through his pockets. _Oh. That_. Skwisgaar pulled the wedding band out and held it next to his own. "Huh. Shoulds have gotten blacks ones, dat woulds be betters."

Charles refrained from pointing out that originally been his idea; he knew better than to try and argue something so inane. He watched as Skwisgaar slid the ring onto his finger.

The sense of déjà vu was staggering. Had he been sitting down last night, too? Yes, that seemed right… Either fallen or tugged down to the guitarist's level. He opened his mouth to ask what the point of all this was, and _that's_ when Skwisgaar kissed him.

Being thoroughly kissed by Skwisgaar Skwigelf was certainly an experience. Charles, in spite of himself, helped to draw it out. His breath hitched as Skwisgaar pulled away, hands sliding under Charles' suit jacket, to his shoulders, and from there slid the jacket off to no resistance.

_This is completely inappropriate_, Charles thought, but he was having some trouble getting his body to agree. A long-fingered hand molded itself to the front of his suit pants, another deftly working at his belt and fly, making things even more… difficult.

Skwisgaar chuckled, mouth briefly on Charles' again and then moving down his neck, kissing and nipping gently. "You ams so res-presked dat you gets it up real fast evens wit' de hangovers, lawyer man," he murmured.

Charles had no response to that; there was a hand in his pants, fondling him, and that hadn't happened to him in a very, very long time. There was a matching erection pressed against his thigh, rubbing against him with every lazy roll of the guitarist's hips.

He let his head fall back against the chair. "I can't believe I'm doing this…"

Skwisgaar smirked. "It ams because you totallies wants to," he stated confidently.

"Ah…" Charles took a deep breath. It was so hard to think with those hands on him like that, which was probably a sign. Do it, get it over with, and get it out of both their systems – at this point it would be far simpler and more discrete than trying to turn Skwisgaar away. "Fine. Yes," he said, and when Skwisgaar's lips pressed against his he gave in and kissed back hungrily. "But first," he added breathlessly after a moment, "lock the door behind you."

"… Ams you seriouslies?"

"Very. If… If we're going to do this, I'd rather not be… interrupted by anyone."

Grumbling, Skwisgaar slid off the chair and went to the door, giving Charles a chance to catch his breath.

_I can't believe I'm doing this,_ he thought as he turned off his cell phone, unplugged his desk phone, and hit one of the buttons under his desk. Blinds slid down quickly but silently over the windows, a safeguard against the wandering eyes of any idle snipers in the fortress watchtowers. He turned his desk lamp on. The ring on his finger made his hand feel unusually heavy.

What he could remember of last night wasn't enough to make him blush, but his pulse did quicken when he looked up and saw Skwisgaar walking back toward him. The guitarist beckoned for him to stand up and he did so self-consciously, all too aware that Skwisgaar had left him hanging out of his pants.

Smirking again, Skwisgaar sent the bottom half of Charles' suit sliding all the way down to his ankles and then handed him a small tube from his own pocket. "Use dis to gets readies for me ins you. Like you dids last nights."

_That_ was almost enough to make Charles blush. He could vaguely remember putting on quite a show. _It's just been too long_, he thought as he sat back down, loosening his tie and watching Skwisgaar undo the signature skull belt buckle. _In the future, perhaps it would be wise to… allow myself a small amount of personal time on occasion…_ Suddenly Skwisgaar was completely naked in front of him. Charles swallowed hard.

"I don't sees you touching yous-self," Skwisgaar said, leaning over Charles with his hands on the armrests. "Mays-be you—" he slid one hand to Charles' leg, behind his knee and lifting the leg up "—wants some helps?"

Charles braced his heel on the edge of the seat. "I would really appreciate that," he said as evenly as he could manage. Which, although he did try, wasn't very. He wondered if all Skwisgaar's conquests felt this way. If that's why Skwisgaar chose them – people who were usually denied (or denied themselves) sexual gratification.

Maybe the trick to getting into Skwisgaar's pants was as simple as having a pathetically long dry spell.

Well… either that or being a slut. But Charles didn't feel he fell into that category.


End file.
